What’s the last thing you let go of without naming it?

I was cleaning out my brush tray this morning and found an old ink stick—half-melted, cracked down the middle. I didn’t remember buying it. Didn’t remember using it. But I kept it. Not for sentiment. For the way it felt in my hand, like something that had already said everything it needed to say before I even touched it. Now I’m wondering: what’s the last thing you let go of not because it was broken, but because it was complete? Not a loss. A release.